HOW many evenings, walking soberly Along our street all dappled with rich sun, I please myself with words, and happily Time rhymes to footfalls, planning how they run; And yet, when midnight comes, and paper lies Clean, white, receptive, all that one can ask, Alas for drowsy spirit, weary eyes And traitor hand that fails the well loved task! Who ever learned the sonnet's bitter craft But he had put away his sleep, his ease, The wine he loved, the men with whom he laughed To brood upon such thankless tricks as these? And yet, such joy does in that craft abide He greets the paper as the groom the bride! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPRINGTIDE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: HILDRUP TUBBS by EDGAR LEE MASTERS BALLADE OF DEAD FRIENDS by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON BREAK OF DAY IN THE TRENCHES by ISAAC ROSENBERG SHE PASSED THIS WAY by ANNA M. ACKERMANN LAURENCE BLOOMFIELD IN IRELAND: 1. LORD CRASHTON by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM FALLING STARS by PIERRE JEAN DE BERANGER WHO GOES THERE? by GRACE DUFFIE BOYLAN SONNETS FOR NEW YORK CITY: 2. A POLITICAL 'BOSS' by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH |